Reasoning
by Shiroi Iyasu
Summary: He runs as fast, as far away as he can - he never looks back. He's done. He's lost. There's nothing more he can do now. -HetaOni AU-


I wrote this a really, really long time ago. Almost more than six months ago, really, and that's quite a while when I consider my writing style.

And I sure am goddamn pleased to know that I wrote awesomely back then, at the moment.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

It is a rainy day when they find him.

What remains of the world is gathered together in a large waiting room, some pacing the area and others seated in the cold, flimsy plastic and steel chairs lined up against the walls. Medicine and sterile air mix in greatly, which is to be expected in a hospital, but no one likes it and nations are far from the exception. Regardless, they are silent, save for the shuffle of soled feet and idleness.

A nurse walks in from the empty corridor ahead - Hungary immediately approaches her, whispering a short conversation, but the quietness of the room allows all of them, whether they wish to or not, to eavesdrop on it.

"Is he alright?"

"Yes. He is stable now - his fever as lessened quite a bit and his injuries have been stitched up. I'm afraid he's broken a few bones, but they should heal within a week. You can visit him if you wish, but he is asleep currently."

"I see. Thank you very much."

The nurse - she is Japanese, Hungary notes suddenly and feels a strange tightness being pulled in her facial muscles as she stretches her lips into a grateful smile - nods and bows in a common reaction, walking out of the room to tend to other matters. No one really needs to ask the brunette lady if they can go in already. All who were seated have rose, taking steps forward in her direction, and beyond. The attention is on the door at the other end of the corridor.

Austria fixes the crooked placement of his glasses - the clink is what gathers their attention. "I suppose we should get going, then." There are nods and undecipherable mutters, but it is a yes in all technicalty, and what remains of the world is led forward, guided by the Baltics, into the resting room for Special Patient #16 aka Italia Veneziano.

.

It is almost a horrifying sight.

Liechtenstein bites her bottom lip, chewing on it tenderly as sweet emerald looks over the dead form settled on the sheets, covered like Egypt's long gone monarchs and empresses in snowy bandages and stiff gauze that hides away flowing, half-healed cuts and blood. The brunet man is silent, sadly so, and is unable to hear the living world for the momentary being as machines beep steadily in the background and IV drips slowly in its teal-hued bag.

The first by his side is Romano - he stands and firmly grasps the nearest hand, clenching it into a pale white as pain and anger stretches and flickers into a scowl on his face. The action, oddly enough, stirs the man awake with fluttering eyelids and painless groans, murky hazel awakening to an entirely new world and ever so slowly does it glide upwards, settling on a familiar face that makes everything hurt even more.

Italia smiles thinly - there is no joy in it as it cracks into formation, like the scars of damaged glass.

"It must... have been hard on you," he croaks with all he can muster, eyeing the southern half with no affection, and yet no darkness. After what he's been through, there is nothing left but memories and the most basic instincts for survival. Gone forever is his wellspring of emotion, and he really can't bother himself to care. There's no place for such trivalties. The weakest of sarcastic chuckles leaves him as Romano tightens his hold on his right hand, though it's but a numb pressure to him and his senses. "-those memories..."

And then he succumbs to actual slumber.

.

Days and days have passed - despite his abnormally slow healing rate, which proved a bit of a set-back, the cheerful Italian is to be discharged today.

Of course, during his stay in the hospital, he has been greeted by everyone he could possibly know. All sorts of flowers and gifts and cards, and all of his favorite foods litter his little room like a pack rat's nest, though he doesn't mind. He knows they're just concerned about him and his health, after so long of nothing but hopelessness and waning light.

The brunet inhales and exhales, breathing in the mushed up scents of lilies and orchids and jasmine and so many other flowers lathering the air. By his bedside, a vase of daisies and roses are messily arranged into a bunch, courtesy of Poland somehow messing up Taiwan's attempt at flower arrangement. Humming a familiar piano tune, the man idly plucks a daisy out from the vase, fingering the soft white petals musingly as he thinks and remembers with a frightening calmness. This is his country's flower - the innocent, childish daisy.

He is tempted to crush the ball of golden-brown and snow, letting the wind carry it out the window and hope it spreads an unseen message. He doesn't do that - instead, he sets it back in its home among kin and roses, where it goes unnoticed as it adopts a strange slouch in its stem that looks depressing in a sense.

A thin smile grows at the silly irony.

.

An odd air on unease paints the next meeting.

Italia is as oblivious as he always is - the brightest smile is upon his face as he hums a nonsensical tune, tapping lithe artist fingers on the long, oaken table mindlessly as nations gather their thoughts and the month's host, who happens to be Norway, neatly stacks papers and prepares himself for not a meeting but more a confronting interrogation with the northern half.

He begins- "Italy, what happened?" -bluntly.

The younger sibling sways his head to his direction, eyes closed as usual, but his smile suddenly becomes fixed where it is. The man isn't an idiot - when they call for 'Italy', it's neither Romano or both him and his brother. And somehow, for some reason, Italia never likes that. Hardly likes it. "Ve~? Me? About what, Norway?"

Instead of the country himself talking, it's Denmark that answers with faked nonchalance, "About that day a bunch of weeks ago. You know, when you and the Axis and Allies and Prussia went somewhere and never came back."

"You mean that haunted mansion America told us about?"

"Um, yes," Norway cuts in, a tad bit awkward, "I suppose it was a mansion he said..."

"Oh, it's not a very nice place," the brunet replies vaguely. The tapping of his pale, scarred fingers is gone and the smile is replaced with a tiny, almost thoughtful frown - it's clearly a misleading gesture, and all but his brother and possibly Spain can tell why, if they even noticed that fact. "It's so empty and abandoned - like a real, proper haunted house. I don't like that place at all~!"

Switzerland coughs loudly. "Then why did the others not come back with you? It's just an empty residence-"

"It isn't."

Heads turn and frowns deepen - the blond mercenary narrows his eyes at the northern half, who has opened his eyes to give him what can actually be a glare. There are no frowns and no smiles and no grins or silly antics from the man, but there is a seriousness that not many can fathom. No one has, after all, seen or known such a rarity.

"Didn't I just tell you? That mansion was haunted - is _still_ haunted," Italia repeats in a wavering firmness, glancing here and there and right and left, searching for something to focus on as he scrapes the coffin open. It is not going to be pleasant if he didn't. "Not with ghosts or malicious spirits, but there was something there though. And it didn't like any of us at all."

He pauses, an insane giggle leaving his lips unchecked. "That thing must be angry now, since I'm the only who hasn't died yet for his trophy case. How sad."

.

All the nations except Italia Veneziano have gathered together unofficially one day. Whispers of ones supposedly dead arise, and while some wonder if Northern Italy has just lost his sanity, some cannot deny that something deadly had occurred in their absence. If what the brunet spoke is a truth, then it is a matter no one can ignore.

Countries cannot die just like that, but to Italia, they all died.

They all died, right before his eyes.

Corpses of friends and family lie in various rooms in that mansion, thirty kilometers away from the World Summit. Their lives, for someone else's, was the purpose for their death.

* * *

It's a little short, and I think I had planned to write more than this, but I like that it stops there. Feels very epilogue-y in a way.

It's not much of an AU, really. It's more a little, random story about the other nations' reactions if Italy didn't confront the Thing and just ran. I kinda wish I could elaborate on Italy's perspective and mental state of mind in this one-shot also, but I'm honestly not sure. Maybe I can just leave it all to the readers - though I do think he is guilty about leaving the other countries in that mansion, at the very least. He's just hiding how much this has shaken him by putting on a more uncaring mask.

That thing about Italy's name being 'Italia' here is a reference to the relations between Southern and Northern Italy in Hetalia. When anyone calls for Italy, they're talking about the northern half, and never usually the south when, in my opinion, the name should address both twins. Though, it can be resolved somewhat by saying that the name Italy was derived from Italia's own name. Consider it as one of my headcanons.

Also, I've never been to a hospital in my life. Ever.

~Shiroi


End file.
